Irene Ashton 



or 



The Stolen Child 



Drama in Five Acts 



By 
HELEN BEATRICE LOCHLAN 



Copyright, igii, by Helen B. Lochlan 



Price, 25 Cents 

Address 

H. W. SMITH or THE AUTHOR 

SMITHS. MASS. 



IRENE ASHTON 



OR 



THE STOLEN CHILD 



Drama in Five Jlcts 



BY 



HELEN BEATRICE LOCHLAN 




BOSTON 

S. J. PARKHILL & CO.. PRINTERS 

1911 



T^ \ «> 



CHARACTERS ^ 

Mr. Copeley, owner of Copeley Castle. J^ i\\^ 

Mrs. Hovey, Mr. Copeley' s sister. 'y \ 

John West, Mr. Copeley' s head man. 
Kate Sefton, Irish servant. 

Constance Hovey, Mr. Copeley^s niece. 

Beatrice Warren, Constance's friend. 
Karl Webber, chief of gypsy tribe. 

Jane Webber, chiefs wife. 
Waldo Webber, their son. 
Irene Ashton, a waif. 

Annie "^'Hixaz.x^^ fortune teller. 

Mrs. Wallace, a young widow. 
Clare, her daughter. 

Alice Winthrop, Mrs. Wallace'' s friend. 
Millie Stearns, a school-girl. 

Jack Irving, a strolling gypsy. 

Policeman^ Band of Gypsies^ Strollers into Gypsy Camp, 
School Children. 

Time — About one and a half hours. 



COSTUMES AND SCENERY 

Ordinary costumes are used by all except the gypsies, who should 
be attired grotesquely. 

The stage represents a gentleman's study in the first and fourth 
acts, a lady's parlor in the second and third acts, and a gypsy camp 
with gypsies in the fifth act. 



Notes 

The success of the play dep^^nds largely on each player adapting 
himself or herself to his or her paytfcular part. Do not act stiff, but 
all should have a certain dignity e'xcepting the gypsies, who should be 
interested in their own work of telling fortunes, making baskets, etc. 
Music must be appropriate and can also be introduced between the acts. 



©CID 23760 



Irene Ashton, or The Stolen Child 



SCENE I 



SCENE. — Mr. Copeley's home. Mr. Copeley is sitting in 
deep meditation^ a loud rap on the door causes him, to start. 

Enter Kate Sefton, makes a courtesy. 

Kate. Your honor, and it's meself that wouldn't be after 
troubling ye, but it's a vicious looking man that's been round here 
inquiring to see the gintleman of the place, and it's meself that 
towld him to be off with himself for a dirty thramp, but John, he 
says to me, says he, " Kate, will you spake to the master about 
letting some gypsies camp on the primises ? " Gypsies, says I, bad 
luck to thim for a set of vagabonds ! a dirty, thaving, lying lot, 
saving your presence, yer honor ! {Makes a courtesy.) 

Mr. Copeley {laughing). Well, Kate, my good woman, don't 
be too hard on the poor gypsies. 

Kate. Hard is it, yer honer .? Me hard .^ Faith, there is not a 
softer hearted person than meself living, and I'd turn meself inside 
out for a dacent, poor person, but the likes of thim thaving gyp- 
sies, the Lord save us from thim ! {Crossing herself.) 

Enter John. 

Mr. C. Well, John, what is it about these gypsies? 

John. Well, sir, I thought, sir, as you always have so much 
sympathy for the poor and unfortunate that perhaps you might 
find it in your heart to let a wandering tribe of gypsies camp on 
the outskirts of your land, and I will see to it, sir, that they do not 
abuse the privilege. 

Mr. C. Well, John, why should I not ? are they not all children 
of one father? A race to be pitied rather than despised. A 
strange class of people, to be sure, but you and I should not per- 
secute them.' Yes, John, we will let them come and see if there 
be not some good even in the poor gpysies. 

John. All right, sir, thank you, sir. 



4 IRENE ASHTON 

Kate {to John). And indade, is it yourself that's thrying to 
introduce those blackguards of gypsies onto the place ? and faith, 
I hope they'll stale the clothes off your back before your through 
wid thim. 

John {laughing). Oh, not so bad as that, Kate, I hope. 

\^Exit John and Kate 

Mr. C. Well, this may seem weak and foolish in me to allow 
these gypsies to camp on my grounds, and there may be no end to 
the trouble they may make me, and still it is a simple request, to 
give a resting-place for a while to a wandering tribe of people ; 
they are but living out their life, as we are living out our lives. 
But where were my thoughts before this interruption? Ah, I 
remember ! can I ever forget my child, my long-lost child, my little 
Violet, lost in her early childhood ? Memory is upon me to-night 
with all its power. 

Would to Heaven, that I could find thee ! Art thou at rest on 
yon blissful shore, where dwells my sainted mother? or can it be 
that thou art a wanderer on the earth, without shelter or a home? 
Answer me, ye glittering orbs of night, that shine forth from out 
yon ether blue, is she with you, my little Violet? The stars shine 
on, they answer not, they stop not in their course to speak to 
mortals. All, all is Law. Eternal Law. 

Enter Mrs. Hovey. Mr. Copeley starts. 

Mrs. H. Paul, my brother, I overheard part of your soliloquy 
and my heart went out, as it always does, to comfort you in your 
trouble. You speak of Law, all, all is Law. And what is Law but 
God. Are not the earth, sky and air full of Him ? In Him is life, 
and if He pervades all things, what, then, is Death? 

Mr. C. O sister ! had I your faith I should be most happy. 
To me all things work by Law — this wondrous universe in which 
we live, the stars that shine, the planets in their order, the myriad 
forms of life upon the globe, all live by one great Power, the uni- 
versal Law of cause and effect, and what are you and I but atoms 
in the scale ? 

Mrs. H. But, Paul, you forget the soul. God is Spirit, Spirit 
is life ; since Spirit pervades all life, there is no room for Death. 
If, as I believe, Violet be dead, — no, not dead, but living in another 
form — then she is not separated from you, but comes to you, even 
as the fragrance of this flower {holds a bufich of violets in her 
hand) is wafted to you by some invisible force. You see the body 
of the flower, its form, and coloring, but not its spirit, you inhale 



IRENE ASHTON 5 

its fragrance but cannot tell from whence it cometh, so it is with 
Spirit. 

Mr. C. Oh, could I believe that Violet lived, even in another 
sphere ! and yet there are moments when a strange peace takes 
possession of my soul, and then I could almost believe I saw my 
sainted mother's face. 

Mrs. H. O Paul! believe it, and find sweet comfort in the 
thought, our dead still live, were it not for this faith, which to me 
has become a knowledge, I should have fainted by the wayside 
long ere this, but thank God who unsealed my eyes, that I could 
see and know my own can and do come to me. But I came to 
bring you these httle flowers, they bear the name our darling bore. 
Let them be to you a token that she lives and loves you still. 

But, Paul, I had almost forgotten to tell you that my dear little 
Constance has just arrived to-night with her friend and school- 
mate, Beatrice Warren, to spend the holidays. They are waiting 
to see you ; let us try, my dear brother, and forget the past, with 
all its sorrows, and try and make these young people happy. 

Let us sing some of the old songs to-night. 

{Exit both.) 

Close of Scene I 



SCENE II 

SCENE. — Mrs. Wallace's sitting-room. Mrs. Wallace and 
Alice Winthrop sit sewing. 

Mrs. W. How the old days come back to me to-day ! Once 
more I seem to see myself] a bride leaving my father's home, and 
though sad the parting, yet the joy of going away with my young 
husband on our wedding trip gave a rosy hue to it all. How we 
enjoyed that trip on the Continent! and then how happy our jour- 
ney home — all comes before me so vividly to-day. And then the 
sad ending to it all, my noble husband shot by brigands ! Oh ! it 
is too terrible ! 

{She bows her head and weeps.) 

{In the distance is heard singing " Let the Dead and Beautiful 
Rest:') 

Alice. O Maude ! I beg you not to weep so. Oh ! why will 
you always remember those dreadful scenes ? you know you have 
little Clare to live for and give you comfort. 

Enter Little Clare with her doll. 

Clare. Why, what is the matter with my darling mama ? 
Don't cry so, mama, you'll break my heart. 

Mrs. W. Well, darling, I will try and forget, for your sake, all 
the sorrows of my life, and live to make my little girl happy. 

Clare {kissing her). That's a good mama, now I'll sing to you. 

(Clare sings.^ and while she sings, enter Milly Stearns with 
a bouquet ofjlowers.) 

Milly. Oh, excuse me, but I came over to play with Clare a 
little while, and mama sent you some flowers. 

(Mrs W. takes powers and smells of them.) 

Mrs. W. How lovely they are, and how very kind of your 
mother to send them to me ! 

Milly. Oh ! a flower is a little thing, but mama says it carries 
a message of love to sorrowing hearts. I often wish I was a 
flower. 

Clare. Oh, I think you are nicer than a flower, 'cause a 



IRENE ASHTON J 

flower couldn't play with me. I think it is nicer to be a little girl. 

MiLLY. What a funny little girl you are, Clare! Mrs. Wal- 
lace, did you know that the gypsies have come to town? 

Mrs. W. and Alice {together). The gypsies! How dreadful! 
{Both rise) 

MiLLY. Why, I thought it was just lovely. All the school 
children are just crazy about them ; and, what do you think, we 
have all planned to go and visit their camp after school to-morrow. 
They are in the Copeley woods. 

Clare. Mama, may I go with Milly.? 

Mrs. W. Oh no, my dear! the very thought makes me 
shudder. 

Mrs. W. {to Alice). I do believe it was their coming to town 
that affected me so a little while ago. 

Alice. I have a perfect horror of them. 

Mrs. W. So have I, they are birds of ill omen. 

MiLLY. Oh ! I almost forgot my errand. May Clare go to 
school with me to-morrow afternoon .? I will see that she comes 
home all right. 

Clare. May I, mama ? 

Mrs. W. Yes, if you wish to. 

CURTAIN 

Close of Scene II. 



PRELUDE TO SCENE III 

SCENE. — A group of children on their way to the gypsy camp. 

MiLLY {kissing Clare). Now, Clare, you must go right straight 
home. We are going to the gypsy camp. 

{They stop and sing. Clare s^oes out. Music in the distance. 
They stop and listen.) 

MiLLY. What lovely music ! But we must go or we shan't get 
home before dark. 

{All go out.) 



SCENE III 
SCENE. — Mrs. Wallace's sitting-room. 

Mrs. W. {nervously). Alice, see how dark it is growing, and 
Clare does not come, you don't suppose anything could have 
happened to her ? 

Alice. Oh, nonsense ! what could have happened ? but if you 
would feel any easier in your mind, I will run over to Milly's and 
see. But, hark ! I hear the bell. 

Enter Milly, all out of breath. 

MiLLY. O Mrs. Wallace ! has Clare come ? 
Mrs. W. Clare ! why where is she .'* {faints.) 

(Alice runs to catch her and restores her.) 

{Servants rush in.) 

Alice {to Milly). Call a policeman. ^ 

{MiiSLY goes out and returns with a Policeman.) 

Policeman. What is the matter, madam } 
Alice and Mrs. W. Clare is lost, we think she has been 
stolen. 

8 



IRENE ASHTON 9 

Mrs. W. Oh, find her ! in the name of Heaven. 

Policeman. We will, as soon as you give us a clue. 

MiLLY. I think she went to see the gypsies, she talked of 
nothing else. 

Mrs. W. Oh, I knew it! I knew it. They'll kill her. O 
merciful P^ather ! 

Alice. Don't, dear, this officer will find her. 

Policeman. That I will. Where did you say the gypsies 
were? 

Alice. In Mr. Copeley's woods. 

(Policeman takes notes and leaves^ saying, We will report.) 

Mrs. W. Wait : I will go with you. 

Alice. Well, if you go, I will follow. O those horrid gypsies ! 

CURTAIN 

Close of Scene III 



SCENE IV 

SCENE. — Mr. Copeley in his study. A sharp ring at the 
door, enter Kate, excitedly. 

Kate. Mr. Copeley, a lady to see you, sir. 
Mr. C. To see me ? show her in, Kate. 

Enter Mrs. Wallace. 

Mrs. W. O sir! my child, my only one, is lost. We have 
traced her to your grounds, where camp the gypsies. 

{She falls into the arms of Mrs. Hovey, who enters in time to 
catch her.) 

(Kate is wringing her hands and calling on the saints to de- 
liver her from the thaving, lying gypsies.) 

Mr. C. {to Kate). Call John. 

Enter John. 

Mr. C. John, I hear grave charges concerning this band of 
gypsies camping on my lands. 

John. What, sir ? 

Mr. C. I hear that a child has been abducted : investigate at 
once and send me word. 

(John goes out.) 

CURTAIN 

Close of Scene IV 



lO 



SCENE V 

SCENE. — The ^ypsy camp. Karl Webber is playing the 
banjo. Irene Ashton, the waif, is sinking and dancing to a 
group of people. Annie Walton, a pretty gypsy, is telling 
fortunes. Jane Webber is peeri7ig cautiously into the face of 
every newcomer. Irene is the gayest of the gay. In the midst 
of the scene she goes out and encounters Jack Irving in hunting 
suit. 

Irene. Why, here comes Jack ! any luck to-day, Jack? 

Jack. No, the birds were too shy. no luck for me, everything 
goes against me. 

Irene. Blue, Jack, as usual. Well; I know how to pity you, 
but there is luck in store for you, sure. 

(Irene ^<?^j back into camp.) 

(Mrs. Hovey enters, goes into camp, when she goes out she 
drops her basket of violets. Irene goes out after her, picks 
up basket, smells flowers.) 

Irene. That lovely lady dropped these beautiful flowers : I 
will run and give them to her. 

To Mrs. Hovey. Lady, you dropped these lovely flowers. 

Mrs. Hovey. Oh! you dear child, did I? Well, you are 
welcome to them. 

Irene. Oh, thank you ! 

(Mrs. Hovey goes out.) 

Irene {to herself). It seems as if I'd seen her before. I sup- 
pose that is one of my dreams. Oh, how I love violets ! they are 
to me the sweetest flowers that grow, and yet they always make 
me sad. I wonder why. How distasteful this life is to me ! Oh 
how I hate it all ! I often wonder where I began it, for something 
tells me I was not always one of these people and, sometimes, 
when I am alone, under the canopy of the stars, a voice seems to 
speak to me, " My child." Oh ! can it be that I have a mother, 
even up among the stars, that lives and pities me. But I must 
go back and help to amuse these people. 

II 



12 IRENE ASHTON 

(Karl and Jane Webber come into camp.) 

Jane. Well, here's a pretty kettle of fish. 

Waldo. What's the matter now, mother ? 

Jane. Oh, a young one strayed into camp. Pretty as a 
picture, but a good-for-nothing brat, I'll be bound; now, I 
wonder whose child it is. 

Karl. Off with her ! off with her ! we don't want no more 
brats here : got enough now. {Looks at Irene.) 

(Little Clare comes in crying^ Irene tries to stop her.) 

Irene. Oh, you dear little girl ! don't cry. No one shall hurt 
you. I'll take care of you. 

Karl. You, you good-for-nothing lazy baggage, you ! You 
ain't worth your salt. You are too proud to beg, and you won't 
steal. Want to be a lady, don't you ? 

Jane. Humph ! a pretty lady you'd make. 

Waldo. There, don't make Irene cry again, I think youVe 
both said enough. 

(Irene goes out claspin^^ her hands and looking up.) 

Irene. O God ! if there be a God, pity me and take me away 
from these people. 

(Irene steps forward and sees Jack standing alone.) 

Irene. You here. Jack 1 Have you seen the little girl ? 
Jack. What little girl, Irene ? 

Irene. Why, a little girl has strayed into camp — such a 
pretty name, Clare Wallace. 
Jack {starting). Clare what } 
Irene. Wallace. Why, how strange you look ! 
Jack. Where is she ? 

(Irene leads her out.) 

Clare. I want to find my mama. 
Jack. Who is she ? What is her first name } 
Clare. Cousin Alice calls her Maude. 

Jack. Great Heaven ! can it be my wife ? is she living ? can 
it be ? and this my child ? 

Enter Mrs. Wallace and Alice 

(Jack, with hat off^ is bending over Clare, Mrs. Wallace 
screams^ " My husband I " and falls into his arms.) 



IRENE ASHTON I 3 

Enter Jane and Karl 

Jack. Mrs. Webber, behold my wife and child, not dead, as I 
supposed, but living. 

Jane. Law sakes ! didn't I always tell you there was good luck 
in store for you ? Wall, now, I am real glad for you. 

Mrs. W. {ciingifjg to Jack). Explain, Jack, how did it all 
happen ? 

Jane. Well, you see those brigands left him for dead, and 
Karl and I, we picked him up, carried him to our tent and nursed 
him back to life. The story was that his wife and child were 
killed, so he has always lived with us. 

Jack. And now we will all live together, shan't we, Maude ? 

Mrs. W. Yes, and I shall always love the gypsies, for they re- 
stored to me my husband. 

Alice. Then they are not " birds of ill omen." 

(Irene goes to one side and sings,) 
Enter Mr. Copeley and Mrs. Hovey. 

Mr. C. Whose voice is that .'' 

Jane. Oh ! that is Irene, the waif, she is always singing that 
song, says she learned it in her dreams ; she is a strange child, sir. 

Mr. C. Whose child is she.'* 

Jane. That's what I've been trying to find out, sir. 

Mr. C. How came you by her ? 

Jane. Oh ! many years ago, there came to us a poor woman 
leading by the hand this little child. She was weak and sick and 
didn't seem all right in her head, sir. She only lived a few days, 
she tried to tell us something about the child, but she was too 
weak, sir, but we found a letter, sir, but no one could ever read it, 
sir. Inside was a ring tied with ribbon. She told us by signs to 
keep them — we 've tried and tried to find her folks, sir. Karl and 
I aint got no eddication, so we could n't read the letter, but I '11 
get it, sir, and, as you seem to be a gentleman of laming, perhaps 
you can make it out. 

{Gets letter and hands it to Mr. Copeley, Mrs. Hovey looks 
over his shoulder.) 

Mrs. H. Why, Paul, it is Meg's writing. Poor cousin Meg, 
who went crazy after the death of her child. She disappeared 
about the same time Violet did. You know they thought she 
made away with herself. She has written this in French. 



14 IRENE ASHTON 

(Mr. Copeley reads Meg's Utter.) 

MEG'S LETTER 

Oh, my poor brain! But the child, — yes, I've got her ! They 
called her Violet {aside^ Violet, Violet). But she's my little 
Irene. See, here's the little ring I took and tied with blue ribbon. 

(Mr. Copeley reads the initials V. C.) 

Mr. C. It is, it must be, my Violet. Oh, where is she.'' where 
is she? 

Jane. You mean Irene, I'll fetch her. 

{Goes out and returns with Irene.) 

Jane. This gentleman wants to know all about you. 

Mr. C. Tell me all you remember of your early life. 

Irene. Oh, many things, sir, that seem like dreams. I remem- 
ber an old woman who took care of me, and called me her lost 
baby. She talked of Paul and Eva. 

Mrs. H. That's what poor Meg always called me. 

Irene. She put this little chain on my neck and told me to 
always keep it for it would bring me luck. 

(Mr. Copeley looks at it.) 

Mr. C. So it has, it has brought you a father, this little chain. 
I bought it for you in Paris and had it marked in Italian. Come 
to me, my Violet. {Takes her tenderly to him.) Behold your 
father and your Aunt Eveline. We have mourned you dead for 
many years. 

(Mrs. Hovey embraces Irene.) 

Irene {lifting her eyes to heaven). O pitying angels ! can 
this be true, this noble gentleman my father, the lovely lady my 
aunt, this beautiful home mine ? 

Mr. C. Yes, yours, all yours {to Jane). And now, my good 
woman, how shall I reward you and your good husband for all 
you have done for my child ? 

Jane {cryitig). Well, I haint done much for her, but if you 
could find some work for Karl and give me a place in your kitchen : 
I've kind of tired of this life. 

Karl. You know Jack asked us to live with him. 

Mr. C. Well, I guess I shall have to adopt you all. 



IRENE ASHTON I 5 

Enter Kate S'EFTOH from farther side. 

Kate. Now, I wonder what became of the old one. Holy 
Mother ! there she is {pointing to Jane) — and look at the gypsies 
(she laughs). And the Lord save us ! if there isn't the Master and 
Missis. What in the world is the matter ? {She crosses over and 
makes a courtesy to Mr. Copeley and Mrs. Hovey), {to Mrs. 
HovEY). And, saving yer presince, ma'am, isn't this a queer place 
for the likes of you to be in? 

Mrs. H. Haven't you heard the news, Kate? 

Kate. What news ? 

Mrs. H. Why, Mr. Copeley has found his lost child here in 
the gypsy camp. 

Kate {with horror). Is it a gypsy, she is? 

Mrs. H. No, Kate, but the gypsies found her and have re- 
stored her to her father. 

Kate. Then the saints reward thim, and I'll never say a 
word agin the gypsies again. 

Mr. C. We have proven that there is some good even in the 
poor gypsies. 

Enter John, bowing politely 

John. Well, sir, I can congratulate you. It was a good in- 
vestment, sir. 

Mr. C. Yes, John, it was, it shows how in entertaining 
strangers we may be entertaining angels unawares. 

{A II form a circle and sing.) 



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